


everywhere

by FauxFidele



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Attempted rescue mission, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Galahad's thighs make an appearance, M/M, Sassy Tristan, Some Plot, Some adventure, Then the SMUT, Tristhad on a quest!, weirdly likable Arthur who is kind of cute idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10737678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FauxFidele/pseuds/FauxFidele
Summary: AU where no one dies at the end of King Arthur.**********After a hunting trip gone awry, Tristan and Galahad are given a mission by Arthur to prove that they can be an effective duo together, without succumbing to ... distractions.**********{ Plot Plot PORN }





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Llewcie. Who made me write Tristhad even though it's terrifying and completely out of my comfort zone and I was so sure I couldn't. I'm still pretty sure I can't, but any resemblence to a real story here is all because of her. 
> 
> Also thank you to all the supportive murder bunnies who even make it past the first sentence. 
> 
> {throws Tristhad confetti}

The last streams of daylight tickled Tristan’s face with warmth as the pair of knights broke through the woods, the looming wall of Hadrian coming into full view. The scout grumbled, pulling slick, tangled strands of hair from his forehead, swiping them from his eyes as the milecastle approached on the horizon. The rhythmic clapping of hooves to his back assured him that Galahad rode only a few strides behind, though both men were so cold and depleted that they hadn’t spoken for at least an hour. Their satchels were empty: the second time this week Tristan (with Galahad at his side) had returned from a hunting endeavor empty-handed. Once was rare enough -- twice, positively suspicious.

Tristan whistled a set of trills and a great bird of prey cried shrilly from above, ascending in graceful, spiral waves of air until it could land itself on the scout’s shoulder. He took something from the pocket of his breeches, and the hawk carefully tugged it from Tristan’s fingers and gulped it down, nipping and biting his hands affectionately after.

“ _Go on, Isolde, hmm_?” Tristan cooed mildly, mimicking its own noises. Isolde chewed idly on the end of his braid, biting at the threaded bind. “You’ll need better luck than us, though.” He shooed the creature with a gentle motion of his hand, the hawk dutifully following the cue, her vast wings opening and taking off toward the forest.

Earlier in the day, Tristan had been deep in the heart of the forest, tracking a foul-tempered boar down a stream, pleased at the thought of the roasted swine over an open pit of fire, washing it down with a cold, frothy ale, salivating at the thought.

Just as Tristan loosed his shot, however, Galahad appeared, bursting through the shrubbery, loudly crunching branches and twigs beneath his feet. Tristan’s arrow landed in the boar’s hindquarters, but the beast seemed immune to any pain it caused, instead snorting and stamping its hooves, heading toward them as fast as it could. Galahad retreated and darted back to the bushes from whence he’d sprung, and Tristan grabbed for his sword too late, and was forced to duck out of the way. When he’d come to his feet, the boar was long gone.

Tristan shrugged helplessly at the void, letting his frustration out in a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry,” came the tiny voice, Galahad slowly revealing himself from the cover of the foliage. All was forgotten when the young knight looked up at Tristan innocently, ruddy lips forming a taut line with concern, genuinely disappointed at his folly. Even more formidable, the tunic Galahad wore under his armor had snagged on a bramble, revealing even more of the long, muscled length of his thigh -- a constant and _menacing_ distraction. The fire building in his belly reminded him not to linger too long on the sight.

Tristan tried to swallow down the weakness as Galahad untangled himself. “Perhaps we’ll put bells on your toes next time; might be more subtle,” he teased, letting a sharp-toothed smile slip through one side of his mouth.

Galahad’s face flushed with relief, and he proceeded to approach, but with hesitation. “ _How can I make it up to you_?” the young knight asked softly, becoming suddenly demure. He narrowed his eyes slowly on Tristan.

A hint of depravity was visible in his lips. He couldn’t resist Galahad’s pretense of innocence, and it turned his voice husky and warm. “I can think of something, hmm?”  

Five minutes later the scout found himself propped up against a rock, breeches at his ankles as the young knight enthusiastically swallowed his length, working it up and down. He’d been nearly finished when a rustling in the bushes caused both men to jump to their feet, each taking up their weapon. The boar had come back, grunting and snorting, but Tristan struggled to get his breeches secured quickly enough to make another shot, and the creature again disappeared into the woods.

They’d gone on to track the damned thing all day, on principle more than necessity, and though Galahad tried on several occasions to distract Tristan from the obsessive mission, he’d had no further success in recapturing the scout’s focus. The afternoon rain showers didn’t help; the boar’s tracks were washed clean away and both knights were left soaking and chilled, their garments clinging to their bodies with a sticky, unpleasant weight.

As the daylight waned, Galahad reminded Tristan of their promise to Arthur just that morning. “He made us _swear_ , Tris,” he pleaded, citing the earlier conversation. “He insisted we be back by nightfall.” Arthur made a fuss about the necessity of a punctual return since he’d not wanted them to leave at all, blaming the evening’s feast celebrating one year’s passing since the Roman military left Britain to rule itself.

Agitated and growing wearier by the minute, Tristan complied with a low grunt, and they headed back for the fort on horseback. His muscles ached a little more than usual from the damp cold, his braids still wet with rain and mud, sticking to his cheeks. Still, he was loathe to give up on the wretched pig, the beast he should have killed easily the first time. The beast that interrupted Galahad’s exquisite performance and set off this violent, uncontainable storm within him. He only hoped to keep his unusual flare of temper at bay among the company of the other knights.

Tristan could normally suffer their taunting and jests with great ease, often finding an odd comfort in their childish candor that tended to reveal exactly what they were thinking at all times. But today Tristan did not wish to know their thoughts. He was too freshly bitter for any kind of revelry, and far too damned exhausted for bickering.

As they neared the entrance of the gate, Tristan hesitated, drawing back on the reins. He drew in a long breath as Galahad galloped ahead of him, looking back to the scout with a gentle smile, nodding his head toward the dining hall.

Galahad sensed something amiss in Tristan’s disgruntled hesitation, and he drew his horse to a stop, waiting for him to catch up. The young knight’s brows were creased with worry. “Tristan, is something troubling --”

“ _Gal_ \- a - haaad,” a throaty voice sang out, half shouting. “Tristan!”

Before he could get an answer, the brawny warrior ran toward them with ample vigor. The two men dismounted, Tristan guiding both horses to the stablehand, comforting each with a gentle murmur as he switched over the lead.  

Tristan turned just in time for his brother in arms to approach. “Bors,” he said, with a tight nod of the head.

“ _Bors_!” Galahad greeted him with a playful slap to the shoulder. “Has the feast already started? We’re headed there, now …”

“Grabbing a keg for the hall,” he answered gruffly, nodding back in the direction. “Drained the second one just now.” He laughed, the effect of the ale magnifying the volume. “What’d you bring back, boys?”

“We’re starved,” Galahad continued, mercifully steering the conversation. He rubbed a spot on his midsection with circular motions. “We’ll speak of it after we’ve got some food in our bellies.” Tristan peered at Galahad skeptically, but Bors dropped the issue and they followed him back to the dining hall.

 

***

The group greeted them enthusiastically, the buzz of alcohol and excitement filling the hall noisily. Galahad greeted the other knights as if he’d been gone for weeks instead of mere hours, but Tristan had grown accustomed, if not immune to, Galahad’s constant vitality. The scout settled in, taking a seat that had been saved for him on the far end of Gawain, two cold stouts already waiting for him.

“Welcome back,” Gawain said cheerfully, tossing his long, greasy strands of hair behind his shoulders.

Tristan nodded ambivalently. “Need some sleep,” is all he said, but he lifted his pint in the air and Gawain accepted with a clink of his own glass. Galahad finally confined himself to the seat across from Tristan, smiling at him brilliantly as he took a swig of his ale, trying to coax out a response from the surly scout.  

Bors walked by with the empty keg. “I _bet_ you do,” he said lasciviously, winking at Tristan as he disposed of the empty barrel out back.

Galahad’s eyes got wide, his cheeks flushing a perfect shade of bright pink, just as Bors had hoped. Tristan felt the vexation building within but tried to ignore it, swallowing it down with the remainder of his second glass. Still, his agitation festered from the day’s many disruptions, leaving both his mind and body disgruntled.

“So _fuck all_ , again … is that right?” Bors shoved his way back into his seat on the bench, chuckling at Tristan from across the table. The other men were still eating, grabbing food here and there and taking messy swigs, but they all seemed to laugh in unison at Bors’ remark.

Galahad forced a shouted laugh, forcibly commanding the conversation. “Fuck all,” he agreed, opening his palms up, questioning them all with a helpless grin. “Damndest thing.” Tristan shrugged it off, taking a fresh sip from the ale that was just placed in front of him by the barmaid. He had a suspicion of where this was going, and he was absolutely sure he didn’t want to participate.

“It’s fine; _let it be,_ ” Arthur spoke, scratching the side of his nose, as he often did when he equivocated. Unfortunately the authority he commanded over the knights was always lessened a bit by the effect of the alcohol.

The knights around them were grinning toothily, buzzing with an unspoken energy. Bors and Lancelot were giggling. “Told you,” the former said, grunting, and elbowed Lancelot in the side, who began laughing without restraint, shaking the bench beneath him from the force.

“ _Bors_!” Arthur shouted, scolding him fruitlessly. Galahad rolled his eyes, his embarrassment starting to show as he fidgeted in his seat, glancing up nervously at the scout, who did not seem entertained.

Lancelot controlled his wild fit, regaining his composure though his breaths were still a bit sharper. “Tristan,” he said, commanding everyone’s attention, “Seems you two have been a bit … _distracted_.” He raised a lewd eyebrow, grinning at the scout. Tristan stared back without humor, and took a bite of his roast, chewing it loudly and with no care to keep his mouth closed.  

“Shut up, you imbecile,” Gawain said glibly, tossing a freshly-chewed mutton bone at Lancelot, hitting him square in the face. They all laughed when it bounced off his cheek, straight into his pint. Lancelot gasped and pretended to be offended, producing more raucous laughter. Galahad had even joined in, chuckling loudly, and he was certain that a hint of a smile twitched at Tristan’s lips.

“See, _I think_ Tristan’s just forgotten how to aim!” Bors spoke with a great guffaw, and though Gawain tried to offer sympathy in the form of a gentle nudge to the shoulder, Tristan pulled away coldly, shutting himself off from the rest of the table.

Lancelot giggled, prodding on. “You’ll be in trouble if you’re depending on Galahad’s bow to sustain you, Tristan.” Bors snorted down another throaty laugh, Gawain nodding and cackling in boisterous agreement. Tristan swallowed another bite unenthusiastically.

“Hey!” Galahad scoffed, raising his voice for all of the table to hear. “ _Trust_ me. He knows where to aim.”

It was the customary for them to jest and banter back and forth, but the day’s arduous events and the very distinct lack of gratification in any form left Tristan feeling utterly miserable, irritated, and far too fucking tired to do anything about any of it. He sliced a piece of an apple, popping it into his mouth in seemingly one, swift motion.

Galahad was grinning sheepishly and the knights erupted in laughter, all looking back and forth between the two of them. Tristan shoved his plate toward the center of the table and rose to his feet, sulking away without even as much as a glance back at them. Galahad became quiet, confusion bending at his brow as he watched him leave.

“ _Tristan_!” Arthur stood from his seat, and hurried after the scout, shouting his name again. “ _Galahad_ ,” he added bruskly, nodding toward him and then toward the door, “You, as well!”

Bors made a long, low whistle as the other knights joined, making a satirical, ominous warning at the young knight, who scowled as he followed behind Arthur, turning to make an obscene gesture to the others as he left the dining hall. The last thing he heard was their muffled guffawing starting up again as the doors shut behind him, and he followed Arthur into his chamber.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur meets with Tristan and Galahad, requesting their help. 
> 
> ;)

Arthur was seated before them in his chamber, the wooden throne squeaking a bit as he shifted his weight, gazing upon the two knights with unsettling intensity. He always did that; it was as if Arthur looked straight into the depths of one’s soul when he studied them.

He took in both men: Tristan, looking weather-worn and agitated; Galahad, exhausted. Arthur tried to remember if there ever had truly been any animosity between the two knights, or if it had merely been an indication of their conflicted sentiments having yet to have properly surfaced. The bickering back and forth, nitpicking at each other’s fighting strategies. He remembered a much-younger Galahad becoming incensed during training when Tristan had corrected his stance, murmuring the criticism at barely a whisper, meant only for him. He’d thrown his sword into the dirt, cursed Tristan’s entire family three times over, and stormed off to his chambers, staying there for the better part of the following day as well. Though Galahad was the youngest and the quickest temper of his group, he’d always seemed particularly vulnerable to Tristan’s words over the other’s.

Yet somewhere along their journey the hostility had eased, flourished even, into a blithesome companionship: Tristan, mentor and maven of patience: Galahad his antagonistic pupil. They’d taken to hunting and practicing in the woods, Galahad frequently assisting Tristan with his tracking efforts, becoming quite skilled at it himself. To Arthur, it seemed that after years of struggling with the loss of his childhood, Galahad was finally able to carve out his own sense of existence here, a home with Tristan. He sensed the scout felt the same, and it pleased Arthur immensely to believe they’d found a kind of peace with one another. He envied it, truthfully.

And so he let them take on missions together, letting them scout ahead, tracking rogue tribes across the North on occasion, gathering information. He trusted them together, as they’d proven to be a deadly and effective duo in the past many times. His only hesitation was the current scowl on the scout’s face in front of him; dark, matted braids stuck to his forehead, as he glared irritably at Arthur, looking a great deal less composed than he’d ever seen. Galahad meanwhile looked only weary, with just the faintest trace of hurt that he tried not to let show; Arthur remembering it vividly from the times he’d had words with Guinevere and she’d acted brave, not wanting him to see the pain hidden behind her eyes.

It was slight, but Arthur could sense the underlying tension between them, tender but strenuous. The contention of lovers. He cleared his throat, swallowing down the concession. “What’s troubling you, Tristan?” he asked, briefly meeting Galahad’s eyes as well.

“Nothing,” Tristan snapped, and as if he’d only just realized his agitated appearance, he attempted to relax his posture, sighing out deeply. His eyes softened. “I could use a good night’s sleep,” he answered, honestly.

A smile twitched at Arthur’s lips. “Well you’d better sleep with haste,” he said, eyes narrowing on Tristan, and then Galahad. “I’ve got something I need you to do. I’d like _both_ of you to do it, that is, if you can manage?” Arthur waggled an eyebrow, questioning them, teasing gently.

Tristan scoffed. “I can manage,” he answered gruffly. He looked over at Galahad.

The young knight opened his mouth in offense and frowned back at him. “Well, I’ll manage _just fine_ ,” he added sharply. He rolled his eyes, sighing out heavily but deciding not to add anything. He nodded.

“I thought so,” Arthur said, as pleased as he ever sounded. “Now that we’ve settled that,” he continued, changing to the voice he used for more pressing matters, “Lancelot and I discovered a small group of _merchants_ just north of us, traveling around Woad territory.” He eyed Tristan with a slight worry at his brow. “We saw them just yesterday, but we’ve heard reports that they’ve been wandering for days in the North.”

Galahad looked at Arthur with confusion. “Woad merchants are not uncommon in the North,” he noted with an ambivalent shrug of his shoulders.

Tristan searched Arthur’s eyes for a clue. “They’re not Woad, are they?”

Arthur exhaled deeply, looking back and forth from Tristan to Galahad. “Their horses were too small, but supremely well-fed … hardy. And their supplies seemed more than ample for mere merchants passing through.”

Tristan bit his lip, thinking. “They have riding horses in Rome, smaller. Bred for speed and endurance, over strength,” he said. Arthur raised an eyebrow appreciatively, and nodded.

“ _Exactly_.”

Galahad processed the information. “You believe them to be _spies_ for Rome, is that it?” he asked, letting out a laugh of disbelief. “What purpose would it serve them, to wander about in Woad territory, sneaking around the woods?”

Arthur cupped his hands together and then opened his palms wide into a shrug. “I was hoping you two could help me answer that question.”

Galahad sighed. “Well, I was hoping for a full night’s rest …”

Arthur frowned at Galahad without amusement, and Tristan slowly turned as well to cast his disapproval. It wasn’t really his fault, but Tristan couldn’t quell the frustration that built every time he stole a glance at the young knight; their last encounter ended abruptly at the most inopportune moment, leaving the boiling, constricting kind of tension between them.

“Of course, my Lord,” Galahad corrected himself, straightening up, but not without rolling his eyes first. Tristan nodded his agreeance, curtly bowing his head toward Arthur.

Arthur looked from one man to the other, face contorted with confusion. “I don’t need to know what’s going on here, but _deal_ with it.” Galahad’s eyes grew wide, but instead of arguing, he bowed his head forward, defeated. At Arthur’s dismissal, Galahad turned back to Tristan, in time only to see the heel of his boots hitting the door as he tried to exit swiftly.

“We leave before daybreak,” Tristan mumbled.

Galahad opened his mouth to say anything, make any words come out that might sway him from leaving. Instead he simply watched the back of his head, a mess of tangled braids and hair and foliage, disappear out the door as the scout stormed off to his quarters alone. He realized too late the twist of disappointment that painted his face, making his eyes burn, when Arthur cleared his throat loudly.

“I --” … You _what, exactly_? Galahad asked himself. He struggled to find anything intelligible to offer with the thickening haze of fatigue settling over him at the moment. He suddenly realized his bones felt too tired to hold him upright any longer. 

Arthur rose from his chair, his eyes softening as he approached Galahad, resting a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. “Rest now,” he instructed gently, patting his shoulder with reassurance before ushering him to the door.

“And Galahad …”

The knight’s eyes widened with as much focus as he could muster. “Yes, Arthur?”

“His quarrel is not with you,” he said, speaking quietly. “You'll both feel better after a good night’s rest.”

Galahad couldn’t even force a response. It seemed odd to speak of Tristan to him in such a personal manner, but Arthur had a keen intuition, constantly analyzing and watching everything, and Galahad knew he didn't give advice unnecessarily. He nodded, and really tried to mean it.

Arthur’s lips curled back into a grin, as if privy to some kind of secret. “You should see how he looks at you,” he whispered gently, offering the only encouragement he could. “ _Especially_ when you're not looking.” Galahad half-choked out a small laugh, his lips curling up into a smile, beaming.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he said, finally, feeling as if the words were massively inadequate.

When he wound through the empty corridors to return to his quarters, his steps felt little bit lighter, his thoughts settling down, calming, succumbing to the exhaustion that clouded his mind. Yes, a little sleep was well-deserved, and tomorrow would certainly come quickly.

He'd see Tristan again soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but the rest are much longer. I've got nearly 3,000 for the next one so far, I hope to post ASAP! 
> 
> If only life could understand the importance of writing Tristhad ... 
> 
> *grumbles* 
> 
> THANK YOU ALL AGAIN. Anyone who read this, I love you and appreciate you.


End file.
